


Incubus

by eldritcher



Series: The Heralds of Dusk [12]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:49:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had been strong men, all of them. Their will to live had been sapped slowly by dreams, dreams of molten gold that broke and unmade.</p><p>Now Maglor sees why, as he makes it to Formenos, by virtue of song and love, and a sacrifice made willingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incubus

Gimli was fond of lore. It had been ingrained in him by the blood of Narvi and Durin that ran in his veins. When Faramir succeeded in saving Númenórean lore of the Second Age from the sack of Umbar by the soldiers of Gondor, the scrolls had been brought to Ithilien to Faramir’s palace. Éowyn, ever Gimli’s friend, had sent word to him of this development. Gimli had offered hurried excuses to Legolas and Elladan before rushing to Faramir’s library. He had admired the craft of Númenor which was mightily influenced by the techniques practised by those of his kin who had dwelt in the Blue Mountains including the craftsman who had forged Narsil, Telchar of Nogrod. Gimli loved the skeins of weapon lore, craft and life intermingling in history. 

“Pharazôn’s,” Éowyn said briskly as she sorted the scrolls. “Read aloud, would you? I believe his tale was the only one that interested me while I studied lore.”

Gimli shot her an amused look. 

“I am interested.” Éowyn glowered at him. “I did choose to be cooped up in the library with his scrolls instead of wandering the wilds.”

“Let me read then.”

Without further ado, he took the scroll, held it to the warm sunlight and began reading the old Adûnaic script that he was familiar with from days spent in the company of Legolas who was more educated in lore than Gimli had ever anticipated. Perhaps Thranduil was not as legends etched him. Perhaps there was wisdom and perception under the stoic determination. 

 

“They call me incubus. An incubus who slaughtered the King in his sleep and then raped the Princess to gain the sceptre. 

They are fools.

What is an incubus? They know nothing of it. They know nothing of dreams glittering and sharp that leave you distended from thought and sanity. They know nothing of manacles and blood that dreams imprint on my flesh and soul. They ask me why I indulge in the opiates of Umbar. They ask me why I am as reckless as I am. They know nothing. I must live for today for tonight dreams shall not let me live.”

 

Celeborn watched in profound reverence as she masked her turmoil and entered the throne chamber with poise and pride falling on her shoulders as easily as her golden hair and becoming her equally well. 

He stepped in and the doors were closed behind them. Facing them was the woman who had lost a father to a daughter. 

“Galadriel has come to Alqualondë,” said Eärwen quietly, her blue eyes betraying not the least of unease.

Celeborn no longer had to wonder where Galadriel had inherited her sang-froid from. But his companion’s voice quavered ever so slightly as she spoke.

“I have come seeking aid, Queen Eärwen.”

“Why would you hope to receive aid from Alqualondë?” Eärwen asked quietly, her eyes boring into her daughter’s. So thick was the uncut tension in the chamber that Celeborn felt light-headed and benumbed. 

Galadriel turned half-about to meet Celeborn’s gaze. He frowned and began to move towards her, fearing the wretchedness in her eyes. She offered him a wan smile and then turned to face her mother again. When she spoke, her voice held neither life nor emotion.

“If I am not given aid, then I shall procure it by whatever means I see fit.”

The words rung in the chamber, reverberating off the walls and the ceiling until it seemed that they had always echoed in those confines. Eärwen parted her lips and closed them immediately. 

“My lady Eärwen.” Celeborn moved forward and knelt before the Queen on a knee despite his companion’s silent protests. “I am Celeborn of Doriath.”

Eärwen’s cold mien did not slip but he sensed the easing of the bleakness in her eyes. She nodded and said, “Across us is a portrait of my father, who was kin to Elwë and you.”

Celeborn flinched when he heard the convulsive gasp of Galadriel behind him. But he did not turn to look at her. He knew what he had to do. So he looked up once more into Eärwen’s cold blue eyes - eyes that were familiar and yet not so - and spoke.

“I want to save her. I need to save her.”

“Celeborn!” Galadriel began.

He hurried on, “You must give her the army she needs. Please. I have nothing to offer in return. But if I could, I would, for her.” 

Eärwen swallowed once and then rose from her throne before saying softly, “I swore neutrality, Celeborn. I cannot sacrifice my people to save your wife.”

“My Queen,” Celeborn started.

“However,” Eärwen said quietly, “Manwë himself cannot deny that standing before me is the last scion of my father’s house.”

Celeborn frowned in perplexity. Apparently, he mused, Galadriel had inherited her penchant for vagueness from this woman. 

“Mother!” 

He had never heard her voice break like that. He spun about only to see her pale features blanched of all colour and trembling hands half-raised in silent pleading. 

“They will not follow you when I am alive,” Eärwen said steadily. “They will have no course but to kneel to you when I am dead.”

Celeborn had seen Galadriel clinging to dignity and composure after her brother’s death. He had seen her cold and calm after her cousin’s death. He had seen her pensive but unshaken after innumerable defeats and setbacks. He rushed to her side and held her as she stood stunned, guilt-ridden and with keening despair in those eyes he had fallen in love with. 

“Altáriel,” he ventured to soothe her with the use of a name that had always brought her a measure of calm.

She met his eyes then and he had to suppress the urge to withdraw, for so terrifying was the war in her expression. He heard coughing and the splatter of wet sputum upon the fine wooden floor. Galadriel clutched him and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder even as he twisted to see Eärwen pressing a hand to her bosom and holding herself upright through sheer force of will. What unsettled him was not the blood or the slow death creeping into the chamber or the fact that his shoulder was being bitten into by a woman striving to hold off sobs. It was the painful longing on the dying Queen’s mien that made him utter his next words.

“Go to her,” he said firmly, untangling himself from Galadriel’s shuddering frame. “Please.”

She seemed petrified, so he tugged her with him to where the Queen was succumbing to whatever poison she had ingested. He pushed Galadriel forward and kept a steadying hand on her waist. Eärwen’s hand came up, slowly and wonderingly, to hover over Galadriel’s forehead. Then she sighed and dropped her hand.

“I dreamed of you,” she said softly. “Unhappy child of mine.”

Galadriel’s head drooped and when Eärwen’s fingers came to thread through the luxuriant golden mane, Celeborn felt compelled to bring his hand to clasp the Queen’s stiff fingers. Her appraising gaze turned desperate.

“Buy my child peace,” she enjoined him. 

“Mother,” Galadriel whispered, “you cannot. You cannot. Have I not taken enough blood guilt upon myself? I killed him. I killed him in cold blood.” 

“My life is mine,” Eärwen said firmly. “Take Olwë’s people to victory and redeem yourself.”

“My path does not lead to war,” Galadriel whispered, her voice subdued. “Dreams I need slay.”

“The incubus did not conquer me even when he lured me into golden cages of dreams. Then why would you fear him? You are stronger than I am.” Words were turning rapidly slurred, irises were blown wide, the stench of soil pervaded the chamber, fingers fell away from the golden hair and with effort, the Queen spoke three words.

“Forgive yourself, Artanis.”

 

“What has you in such deep thoughts?” Melian asked Glorfindel as they hurried south to Tirion.

“One would assume that we all have matters of import on our minds, our errand being what it is,” he said politely. 

To his relief, she did not enquire more. He returned to paying watch to the road they were cantering upon. He was familiar with this road. Painfully familiar. Every cobble seemed to have a history of its own to fling at him as he crossed it. 

“Mahtan’s house is still here,” Mithrandir remarked as they passed the insignia of the craftsman. 

Glorfindel suppressed a sigh and rode on. 

 

He had prowled outside Mahtan’s mansion for hours on end, impatiently flicking off the heads of the dainty white lilies that grew in abandon in a small stretch of the cattle pond. He had chuckled to himself when he heard the familiar tread on the steps and then did not wait to even think twice before pouncing on the tall, robe-clad frame of Mahtan’s departing guest.

“Laurefindë !” had gasped his victim, squirming in his hold. “Let go! You are impeding my windpipe.”

Glorfindel had laughed at the thoroughly disgruntled expression on his companion’s face before saying, “Did you think I was not in earnest when I said that I intend to make every flagstone on this road a witness to our passion?”

Mairon had looked quite dazed upon hearing those words. The sudden peals of giggles from one of Mahtan’s upper windows told them that they were in the presence of voyeurs. 

“We had best get off the road,” Mairon said seriously. “I grow weary of being pounced upon by you every moment I let down my guard.”

Glorfindel had wound his arms about Mairon’s waist then and pulled the pliant form back flush against his chest. Mairon muttered under his breath, but made no move to escape his captor’s hold. When Glorfindel blew across the fine hairs at the nape of Mairon’s neck, a sigh forced itself out through clenched teeth.

“There are people watching us,” Mairon said in that precise, clipped tone which had never failed to set Glorfindel’s pulse racing. “I have no wish to be seen while in flagrante.”

“I love you and quite fail to see why you would be bothered by others.” 

Mairon’s eyes had widened, as they always did when Glorfindel used the word ‘love’. He nodded once to signal assent and remained still waiting for Glorfindel’s assault on his senses.

“Take me, will you?” Glorfindel asked him then. 

Mairon had stared at him in astonishment. Glorfindel smiled impishly and gazed back with what he hoped was a suitably beguiling look. 

The effect seemed to be adverse for Mairon muttered, “You look like Irissë.”

“What of my request?” Glorfindel pestered.

“I am stronger than you are,” Mairon said quietly. “While my body can easily recover from some of your exertions upon it, I fear it does not hold true reciprocally. I have not the time or the inclination to be your caretaker if you are wounded by such proceedings.”

“You need not worry about the consequences,” Glorfindel had coaxed then. Mairon’s irresolution was half the battle won. “Take me.”

Mairon had drawn in an exasperated breath before saying, “Tirion. In a bed.”

So they had ridden to Tirion, reaching the gates with foam frothing at their steeds’ mouths. Glorfindel had all but dragged Mairon to his mansion. As soon as they had bolted the door behind them, Mairon caught Glorfindel’s wrists and pressed gently exerting force enough to lead Glorfindel to the large bed. 

“Lie down,” Mairon had commanded then.

Glorfindel had complied eagerly and was reduced to a quivering mass of need when Mairon slowly eased each article of clothing and accoutrement from Glorfindel’s body, worshipping the exposed flesh with nimble fingers and a clumsy tongue quite unused to the art. But Glorfindel’s senses had been wiped clear, his world revolved around the skin upon his skin, the quiet reassurances pouring forth from usually reticent lips and the gradual inferno of orgasm building in his guts.

“Mairon!” he hissed.

“We have all the time in the world,” had been the amused reply. 

When they joined, it was with restrained passion and quiet groans. The brand of reckless shouting and thrusting which defined Glorfindel’s dominance gave away to Mairon’s careful touches and gliding body upon the supine form of his lover. 

Glorfindel climaxed with a shudder and heard Mairon’s sigh above him. Glorfindel cursed. He was quite done with this unhurried, languid pace the only aim of which seemed to be driving him to insanity. He toppled them over and began riding his companion with all the ardour of his youth. Mairon’s eyes went wide before he closed them shut and brought his wrist to his mouth to bite down upon.

“The world is not going to tremble if you shout,” Glorfindel swore, angling himself deeper and faster upon Mairon’s phallus with each rise and fall. “Take the hand away and scream for me, Mairon.”

Mairon opened his eyes and glared at him. Glorfindel bent over to lick sweat from his partner’s collarbone and with a grumble, Mairon let his hand fall. With a grin, Glorfindel increased the pace of his movements, sliding up and down frantically until Mairon’s hands came to grip Glorfindel’s hips and the quiet sighs gave away to cacophony of curses and Glorfindel’s name. 

“Young fool,” was all that Mairon said when Glorfindel collapsed upon him.

“Boring man,” Glorfindel gasped. “Where is your sense of adventure?”

He grinned when he felt Mairon’s smile on his forehead - one of the rare smiles Mairon reserved exclusively for the young fool currently nestled upon him. 

“I don’t need adventure,” Mairon said solemnly, lifting up Glorfindel’s chin to stare into the clear verdant eyes.

Then he did what he had never done before in their relationship. He craned down to brush his lips upon Glorfindel’s.

“I am dreaming,” Glorfindel proclaimed.

“None of your morbid sentimental speeches now, Laurefindë ,” Mairon remarked. 

“I love you,” Glorfindel persisted.

“And half the world loves you,” Mairon said with a wry smile. 

“You might just reciprocate with a parallel declation,” Glorfindel muttered. “I know you love me.”

“Upon my word, Laurefindë , I have better things to do with my time than declaring myself in love with an infatuated young man who will cast me off at the next season. Such triteness is reserved for the follies of youth.”

Glorfindel had not seen a chink of vulnerability in Mairon’s eyes. But he knew it was there all the same. Knowing that further discussion of the subject would only make Mairon withdraw deeper into verbal jousting, he nuzzled his nose on Mairon’s chest and recommenced his carnal explorations.

“What is a dream? An Incubus waiting to prey on our minds, exploiting our innermost, unvoiced desires. We believe we are safe in the lands of reverie. Why? We are at our most vulnerable there, without our mind to aid our heart’s wandering!”

Mairon shifted under Glorfindel as the speech continued. 

“It is Nelyafinwë ,” Glorfindel muttered. 

“A debate?” Mairon had enquired. “I presumed that it was Findaráto who indulged in debates.”

“Yes, yes.” Glorfindel directed his attention to the crook of Mairon’s elbow and revelled in the long drawn moan that resulted. “They are a mad brood, Mairon. In fact, I believe that Fëanáro is the only sane one in that family.”

“I am riding west to Lórien in a fortnight,” Mairon said. “I will be gone awhile.”

“I am coming with you. I have never seen Lórien before.”

Mairon’s eyes had been shot with darkness as he murmured, “That is for the best, Laurefindë . That is for the best.”

 

"The gates remain closed after Nienna sealed it," said the man who had insinuated himself as Maglor's right hand much to Maglor's relief. Veryo, he was called by the others. He had sound warrior's intellect and was quick of arms. 

"You sailed after the great war?" Maglor asked him distractedly. Veryo had mentioned serving Finrod.

"With your wife," Veryo replied. "She is a very courageous woman. Such tides ravaged the seas when we sailed, and yet she remained calm and unshaken. Seldom have I seen a woman so composed."

"Greater tides has she endured," Maglor muttered. "Nienna sealed the gates?"

"Yes."

Maglor frowned. Nerdanel had told him of Indis's death though she had not been forthright with facts, leaving him to speculate on many aspects. After years of solitary despair, he was not prone to speculation at all. So he had shoved it away from his mind. Death no longer affected him as it once had. Death had never frightened him after his brother's return.

Before them then loomed the high gates of Formenos, crafted by the finest apprentices of Fëanor in the heyday of the Noldor. Maglor closed his eyes and willed himself to forget every memory and emotion associated with this place, for there were too many than he could ever bear. 

"We have no tools to bring down the gates. Even if we bring them down, we will be left vulnerable when the enemy arrives," Veryo said grimly.

Maglor walked to the gates and cocked his head. Memories would be the bane of him. But memories were his legacy, the sole remnants of the man who had made him. 

 

"Tears solve nothing," Maglor had remarked as Maedhros returned after consoling yet another war widow.

"Closure," Maedhros had replied. "They dull the grief. Dreams become less vivid."

Something in his voice attested to the truth and Maglor decided that he would not ask another question. His brother seemed to realise what he had unwittingly given away and continued hastily, "So the wise say."

"Some doors are sealed for a reason," Maglor said softly. "I will not strive to open them."

"Perhaps you may have to." Maedhros had smiled then, his eyes turning distant cloud silver. "Perhaps you may need to."

"I hate it when you talk vaguely."

"Force of mind," Maedhros had continued urgently, "that can bring down the mightiest gate, Macalaurë ."

 

Maglor clenched his teeth and willed the gates to open. He had heard of how his cousin had broken Sauron's eastern stronghold by her force of will. He had heard of Finrod's battle of wills with Gorthaur. He had witnessed the clash of will and fear in his brother's life on a daily basis. He had seen his father willing his soul and core into the jewels.

The burning plumes of the sun outspread in defiance over the Pelori ranges and washed crimson over the man whose brother had hallowed him by blood price. The gates of Formenos clanged open and the warriors rushed in with wild cries of triumph. 

After the vanguard had entered the outer city circle, Maglor led the rest in. The gates were barred and they were within the last sanctum of the Noldor.

"My lord!" Veryo called out in true fear as he reached across to grasp the loose reins of Maglor's horse. "My lord!"

Gold, garish and brilliant. Gold as it never should be. Maglor seized the slipping corners of his sanity and willed himself to return to the land where the reassuring pall of the dusk lingered. But gold wrestled him into the battleground of invisible wills and he gasped as his mind was filled with vibrant images of another's past. 

 

A bleeding form still heaving and panting in the aftermath of consummation. 

“I am not Laurefindë, Mairon,” said he softly in a voice that was regaining calm despite the pain and agony. 

 

Maglor brought his hands up in the air in protest as he strove to break free of the invisible leash of another's will. He knew he would be broken. He knew it would never be the same.

 

His eyes were bloodshot and his face was bruised past recognition. Yet there was lucidity in his movements when he heaved himself up biting back exclamations of pain. The intensity of those smouldering grey eyes... 

“He was perfection to you, was he not?” he whispered. “Perfection that evaded everything else you saw.”

His eyes sparkled and he leant in. "And yet you see something in me, do you not?”

“What game do you play, son of Fëanáro?” 

“I am not gold, I am not perfection, but I am here, before you.” 

He dropped to knees already bleeding, his fingers clumsily untying the laces of another's robes. He must have been on the verge of being broken then, to stoop voluntarily to such measures. A convulsive swallow he made before applying himself to the task – he was frightened out of his wits. Shaking fingers of the torturer in his hair, dragging and stroking the matted mane.

When it ended, the prince fell back, too extinguished by pain and fear to even clean his lips. With a curse, the torturer sighed and removed his overrobe before dabbing the prince's face clumsily with it and then covering his nakedness. 

“You could break me now,” the prince murmured wearily. “I am yet to achieve a measure of strength.”

“I cannot promise that you will be spared in the future, prince.” Grey eyes met the torturer's gaze resignedly. “Whatever purpose you plotted, it is futile. My lord turns impatient and I cannot do anything if he decides to direct matters himself.”

“I know.” He hesitated before clasping the torturer's hand. “Mairon, you and I are condemned to this hell. We understand it. Leave the woman out of this.” 

“This place is not conducive to chivalry. Elerrína shall be used, despoiled and broken until she fades. It is the lot of thralls here.”

“I can serve as a vessel for lust,” he said quietly, his shudder nearly imperceptible. “I can take what would be her torment, as long as I live.”

“I did not know that you had a penchant for whoring.” 

The prince flinched as if struck. 

 

White fire blazed through him then and he fell off his horse onto the soft grass dampened by the evening dew. Sunbeams rushed to warm him and the light chased away the dark grip of dreams.

"What was it?" Veryo asked in horror.

"Incubus."

The men he led were staring at him. A cold breeze blew from the north - from Taniquetil - and he was not surprised to feel the moistness of tears upon his skin.

He cast his eyes to the terrace of the palatial mansion where stood proud and undaunted by time's passage the statue of a woman.

* * *


End file.
